For all time

"It's gonna be the best thing ever!" I say, smiling at Michael.

"I'm sure it is, YN. You're making it. Also, love that little black number you're wearing," he winks as you smooth your hands over the little black dress, stepping back from the phone so he can see all of you in the FaceTime window. Propped against the mantle so that he can see what you're doing, your phone shows Michael even as far away as he is. Technology I tell you. You pull out some mats, placing two of them opposite each other.

"So, how's Australia treating you?" you ask, pulling out two plates.

"Well, it has its ups and downs. Ups because I don't have to listen to you snoring. Downs because I can't stay up all night listening to you snoring." Michael says, scratching his head. You snort at that, placing the two plates on the mats.

"You liar. It was me, staying awake listening to you snore." You retort, and then Michael rewards you with his beautiful laugh. Granted, coming in from over 7,000 miles away, it wasn't the same, but you would take what you could get.

"So, what's that delicious smell coming in from the oven?" Michael says, grinning at you. You stick your tongue out at him.

"How'd you guess the oven was on? " you say, picking up the phone and walking into the kitchen. Truthfully, you had put something in the oven.

"Well, because you look stressed, and whenever you look stressed we end up eating orange chicken marinated with that....yummm I can practically taste it from here.....that BBQ sauce that isn't quite BBQ sauce, but I can't really tell the difference. " Michael says, and you see him licking his lips.

"I look stressed?" You say, raising your eyebrows at him. You prop the phone onto the counter, but it slips on the marble. "Shit," you swear, fumbling for the phone with your oven mitts on. It takes you several tries to pick the phone up until you get the bright idea to take the damn mitts off, and you can hear Michael laughing hysterically all the while.

Finally, with a huff, you pick the phone up and prop it carefully onto the counter. Michael's doubled over laughing, and you shoot him a mock glare. "No, but seriously, do I look stressed?" You ask him again. It takes a few seconds for the question to register, he's still laughing like a fool. You grab your mitts and pull the chicken out from the oven, the smell making you momentarily pause and inhale that goodness.

"Your hair is in a bun, you're wearing the dress that you wore on our first date, and there's fluff on your butt." He says, and you wist around. Sure enough, there's a fluffball on your butt. You laugh, plucking it off and putting it on the counter, "Mm, I can smell that from here. God, I wish I was there right now." He says, his mood sobering up with that last sentence. You force a smile through the lump in your throat.

"Well, that's why I'm doing this, Mr.," you say, "just because you're halfway around the world, doesn't mean you get to miss your wedding anniversary." He smiles, and puts his hands behind his head, watching you prepare the chicken.

"Hey fellah, Michael-Oh heya YN!" I hear over the phone and see Leo's best friend, Jonathan, come into the frame. I smile and pick up the phone, grinning at the man.

"How are you doing, Jonny?" You ask, and his grin lights up.

"Aah'm fixing' to git Michael , here, owah orders. Whatcha cookin' there, ma'am?" He says, in his thick southern drawl, catching a look at the tray for the chicken.

"Oh, just our favorite dinner for our anniversary," you say, grinning wickedly at the stark hunger on the guys' faces, "marinated orange chicken, brown rice, and red wine."

"Dayam, sugah." He says, whistling appreciatively, "Well, aah gotta go, nice seein' yah again, YN." He says, and you wave at him as he leaves the frame. Michael turns and fixes you with a starving look.

"YN, must you tease me like that? The closest thing we got to marinated orange chicken over here is Sloppy Joe with mystery meat." He says, shuddering at the appalling thought. You snicker.

"Well, it's what you get. When you come home in a year, you get all this and more." You say, letting the chicken cool and starting to make the bread, "Oh, you got wine, or whisky, or beer over there?" You say, putting down the strainer and running to the fridge.

"Yeah, gimme a sec." You hear Michael say as you rummage around in the fridge. Triumphantly you pull out a bottle of Decoy Cabernet Sauvignon, half-full. You pull out a wine glass from the clean dishwasher, and uncork the bottle, filling up your glass about halfway. You sniff appreciatively and see Michael holding up a cold beer. "What are we toasting to, YN?" He asks, pressing the cold bottle to his lightly scruffed cheek. You rest your hip on the counter and ponder.

"Um, how about we toast to you coming home? To our anniversary? To love? To war? I mean there are so many options." You say, looking at him through FaceTime. His black curly hair is cropped short, and although you prefer it longer, you still love it that way. He's wearing a five o'clock shadow, although it's nine o'clock here, and eight o'clock in the morning there. But you took whatever time you could, together, and made it work.

It had been two years since Michael had gotten his recent album released before he started touring internationally, and he was scheduled to come back later next year. You were very excited about it and repeatedly told him so on your phone calls.

High-school sweethearts, you knew each other was the one after being paired together for the play 'Romeo and Juliet' and had stuck by each other's side ever since. Now you were twenty-eight and he was thirty, and you both loved each other, possibly even more, than when you looked down at him on stage and said the iconic lines 'Romeo, oh Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo', or something like that.

"How about, to us," Michael says, holding his beer up in a salute. You smile.

"To us." You both clink your respective drinks to our phones, and you almost giggle and inhale wine when Michael pitches his voice high and said 'clink'.

"I love you, YN." He says softly, and your heart throbs at the unfathomable distance between you.

"I love you too, Michael," you whisper back.

"For all time?" He says, and you smile at him.

"For all time," you say. You both sip your drinks for a moment, staring at the other as if you would paint a picture right away.

"So, any plans for the week?" Michael says after you both drank and set your glasses down. You shake your head, straining the remainder of the brown rice and putting it in a bowl.

"Nothing much, just work and more work," you say. Michael leans forward, and you can see the desperation written on his face.

"Tell me about it, I wanna know." you smile, knowing he craves these little bits about life back home. As you finish up preparing dinner, you regal Michael with all the gossip about the current drama at your office, how the intern was caught with the assistant desk clerk, and how the CEO didn't give anyone a holiday bonus. All the good stuff, really.

Finally, once everything is ready, you carry the phone into the dining room and then go back to the kitchen for the chicken and rice. you set them both on the table, then realize you'd forgotten the candles.

"I'll be right back," you yell, already halfway up the stairs. You hunt through your closet and find the box of candles, running back down. You place them in the mason jars already set up and light them each in turn. You're both silent as you work and I can hear the faint sounds of his team back at the music studio doing its stuff around him.

You sit down, and cup your head in your hands, smiling at him.

"Well, happy eleventh anniversary, Michael," You say, and he smiles.

"Happy eleventh anniver-...am... I...am....er.....ie." Your smile fades as the phone glitches.

"Mi-Michael, you're cutting out. I can barely hear you." You say frantically into the phone.

"Am.....ull...er....uth...ar....ow...." He says, everything coming out garbled over the phone.

"Michael, can you hear me?" You ask, forgetting all about the damn dinner and trying to hear his voice over the static that's coming over the line.

"Un...l....ooe....hu...ae...low...." He says, everything freezing and coming back simultaneously. You shake your head.

"I can't understand what you're saying," You say. His picture freezes, so all you can see is his handsome face looking down desperately at the phone. "I love you," you whispered, right before the call cuts, and you're staring at a black screen. You close your eyes, feeling the sting of tears. The smell of chicken cuts through to your brain and your eyes fly open, landing on a picture of your wedding day, sitting on the mantle across from the table. It's your favorite picture in the house, you on piggy-back, laughing like a fool, and Michael, holding you up, grinning into the camera.

You stand up and walk over to the frame, picking it up and running a finger down the picture. You press a kiss to Michael's face, forever immortalized on print. Setting it down, you go back to the table to retrieve your attempts at a romantic dinner across seas, hoping to drown your sadness in marinated orange chicken and red wine.